Bobby had always been able to tell when things were. It was a gift. It was also a socially reclusive personality that gave him plenty of time to read and research rather than talking to actual human beings. So he knew all the signs of tulpas, Tricksters, shapeshifters, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, lingering spirits, demons, cursed objects, and Apocalyptic portents. He knew about charms, witches, hexes, and magic.

This reclusivity had also led to an increased affinity for those he did care about. Which at this point was narrowed down to three people: the Winchester kids, and his daughter. And right now his Spidey senses were tingling for all three.

Then the sky went white, which was very bad, indeed. It meant the angels were on the warpath. Which should make him feel better – after all, weren't angels supposed to save the world? But the way things were going – Lucifer leashed, and the marks on the boys that had been impossible to miss – he had the feeling that any angel interference was very, very bad indeed.

Bobby how always been able to tell when things were bad. Usually it meant that he put together a safety net and a good plan for retreat. In this case, it meant that he pressed his foot down a little more firmly on the accelerator and started heading toward it.

* * *

Everything was going a little fuzzy. Dean wasn't sure that was such a bad thing, given the situation. It meant that the pain in his gut had receded, meant that the chills which had come out of nowhere, wracking his body, had disappeared. Meant that he didn't feel quite so guilty for letting the bitch get close to him.

"Dean! Dean!" It also meant that the words trickling out of his brother's mouth were beginning to sound ridiculous. Dean. What a silly word, silly name. Dean. Like James Dean. Or Jimmy Dean. Sausage.

The hazel eyes were beginning to unravel, and Sam's anxious face was becoming a blur of pink. It almost looked like he had a halo, now. Sam the Angel. Dean chuckled. Bad idea. As his stomach muscles constricted it caused another wash of pain to spread through his body, stealing away the fuzziness, making everything stark and agonizing again.

It wasn't a halo. It was light, blindingly white light.

"Oh, what the hell."

The one voice he'd really, really never wanted to hear again. The short, portly bald man stepped into his field of vision, easily brushing his taller, bulkier brother aside. Zachariah's unwelcome face appeared.

"Great," he muttered. "Had to get yourself banged up, didn't you Dean? Just had to get yourself in more trouble before the showdown. That's just swell."

"Fix him!" Dean couldn't see his brother, but he could hear him. Everybody in the state could probably hear him. Dean rolled his eyes. So did Zachariah.

"Of course I'm going to fix him," Zachariah said. "What do you think I came by for? Just to say hello?"

A moment later, Dean suddenly felt. . .good. Amazingly, startling good. Not only had the pain in his gut disappeared, but a thousand other aches and pains. He didn't feel tired, anymore. That crick in his back from too many hours in the car – gone. The ache behind his left knee – gone. The dull headache he'd had since waking up – gone.

"Wow," he muttered. "You're better than morphine."

"Without the addictive side effects," Zachariah said, and Dean was shocked to see – was it possible – an actual smile on the bastard's face. Which abruptly disappeared when a long, tapered knife appeared at his throat. It was visibly shaking, causing Zachariah to roll his eyes again.

"Really?" he said. "You think you're going to take me out? You can barely stand."

Dean sat up, one hand curled protectively around his stomach, although really, it felt a thousand times better. Better than he'd felt, in fact, since being pulled out of Hell. He glanced at Leslie, shaking on her feet, eyes wide and crazed. He wondered who'd done the number on her face – one eye was bruised shut, amazing, considering she'd been fine last time he'd seen her. Blood was pouring freely out of her nose, and there were tracks from her mouth and left ear. One knee buckled, and her lips pursed, but she kept the knife to the angels throat.

Zachariah sighed, turned around slowly. The knife trembled, and this time Leslie's knee did give out, and she fell to the floor. Sam looked guilty. Well, Dean thought. That explains it.

"What a nuisance -- " Zachariah said, but as he finally saw Leslie he froze, his face in a grimace of shock. He stared at her. Sam stared at her. Dean stared at her. Leslie's eyes just rolled up in her head and she fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Where did you find this girl?" Zachariah asked.

"She found us," Sam said, at the same time that Dean said "None of your business, douche."

"Sam, come on," Dean said plaintively. "These dicks have been manipulating us for ages. They are not our friends!"

"They're still angels, Dean," Sam replied, his mouth in a massive frown.

"Shut up," Zachariah said, and with a wave of his hand, Dean suddenly found himself unable to talk. Not just unable to make noise, but to move his mouth at all. He tried to lift his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Nothing. Tried to growl in frustration. Nothing. Damn angels.

Zachariah knelt down – actually knelt! – placed one hand on Leslie's forehead. His hand seemed to. . glow, almost. . .and a moment later she opened her eyes, sat up. At some point her nose had stopped bleeding, and the bruising around her eye had faded.

"I'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. Dean almost choked. Humility? The bitch who had thrown beer in his face, slept on his couch, and dragged them into the middle of nowhere was actually acting humble? "I would never deliberately harm an angel."

"I see that," Zachariah said, and there was something almost approaching reverence in his voice as well. "You are a True Believer. There are few of those left."

"I need an angel," Leslie said, flinching. "To catch a unicorn."

Zachariah stood, his face still closed. "I see," he said. "You hope to stop Lucifer."

Leslie stood with him, pointed at Dean. "I know that you think he's the one to stop the Apocalypse. Maybe he is. But maybe he can stop it this way, instead."

Zachariah laughed at that, and Dean watched as his old mask pulled over his face – the arrogance returned. "I don't think so," he said. "Our way may be more difficult for Mr. Winchester, but overall, it's a more fool-proof plan."

"He won't like it," Leslie said. She stood as well. "He'll probably refuse."

"I doubt it," Zachariah said. "I've known Dean a while now. Been watching him most of his life. He'd sacrifice anything – everything – to save someone else. And look at it this way – it's his only chance to save his brother."

Demons lie, angels lie, demons lie, angels lie, Dean forced the words through his brain. He couldn't let the angel get to him. They'd manipulated him before, he reminded himself. With the whole stopping Lilith thing. . .stopping the Apocalypse. He didn't have to listen to them now. Zachariah walked toward him, stopped only a few inches from his face.

"Do you get it yet, Dean?" Zachariah asked. "You must have figured out by now that humans have no chance at stopping Lucifer. What? You actually thought you could kill Lucifer? You simpering wad of insecurities and self-loathing? No. You're just a human, Dean. And not much of one."

Dean glared. There wasn't much else he could do. There was movement behind him, and he could feel Sam, right behind his shoulder. Somewhere up on the highway there was the low moan of a truck's engine. The brush of headlights on the road. Not that it was much good. Zachariah laughed, and shook his head.

"No." Zachariah said again. Leslie was standing, her head still bent. "You'll be Michael's weapon. His receptacle."

"My God," Leslie breathed. "The archangel. Why was he chosen? Why is he honored?"

Zachariah sighed, shrugged. "Who knows the mind of God?" he asked. "Certainly not us."

The car engine had stopped now.

"He won't do it," Leslie pointed out, and Dean could have kissed her, for saying what he still couldn't. Leslie shrugged, pointed at him. "Go ahead. Let him say it himself. He won't. But he'll help me. He'll help with the unicorn."

"Look, princess," Zachariah lifted a hand, and Leslie's mouth opened and closed futilely. "You may be one of the true believers, but you're getting on my nerves. Let's see what Dean here has to say."

"Thanks, but I'll pass," Dean said. He sighed, worked his jaw a little. In only a few minutes kinks had appeared out of nowhere. "No desire to spend the rest of my life as an angel condom."

"Always joking," Zachariah's face was disappointed now, and he shook his head. "Too bad. No more joking." He lifted a finger, aimed it at Dean's head. Shit, Dean thought. Wrong move. But then the hand turned, twisted, aimed at Sam instead. "Bang," Zachariah said, and Sam fell to the floor with a scream. Zachariah grinned.

"Enough," Zachariah said, his tone flat. "The war has begun. We don't have our general. That's bad. Now Michael is going to take his vessel and lead the charge against the adversary. Got it?"

The motor had cut off. Leslie was still standing. Sam was on the ground, writhing in pain. Dean considered. He didn't want Sam hurting, didn't want the world to end, but he could not trust the angels. He wouldn't. And there was another way. . .the unicorn was still insane, impossible, but it was fighting. It wasn't letting some creepy God-leech inside his skin. He'd seen what it did to Cas. . .did to who Cas used to be. And besides, those angels didn't care about people. . .didn't care how many people died in the fight between Lucifer and Satan.

"No," he said, simply. "How many people would die? Hundreds? Millions?"

"More," Zachariah spit out. "More. Look, Lucifer doesn't have his vessel yet. We don't know who it is."

Leslie was pointing now, gesticulating frantically at Dean. He tried not to look at her, not to give her away. She was really looking insane, anyway. At his feet, Sam whimpered. Dean shrugged.

"There's got to be another way," Dean said. Zachariah shook his head.

"There is no other way. We could heal Sam. Hospital couldn't. . not with his legs turned to jelly."

"No," Dean said.

"Fine," Zachariah pursed his lips. "We'll heal you. From stage four stomach cancer."

And then the cramps hit, low and hard. Dean's legs gave out, he fell to the ground. Had he been stabbed again? He coughed, and something hard dislodged in his throat. His hands came away from his mouth, red. Sam whimpered again. Dean glared up at the angel.

"No," he said again. "Just kill us."

Zachariah frowned. In a smooth gesture he turned and grabbed Leslie by a knot of tangled, curly hair, and tossed her to the ground. "Let's get creative," the angel ground out between clenched teeth. "Let's see how your true believer does without any lungs."

Dean screwed his eyes shut. He couldn't see Leslie gasping for breath, a beached whale, a landed fish. "No," he whispered. His stomach spasmed, and he coughed again, a low, hollow sound.

"Fine," Zachariah said. "Then say good-bye to your precious planet